


why my neighbor is a namikaze

by oviostron



Category: Naruto
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Family Bonding, Founding of Konoha, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Konoha Village, Queerplatonic Relationships, Time Travel Fix-It, Uchiha Izuna Lives, Uzumaki Naruto-centric, aftermath of war, kind of, somewhat BAMF Uzumaki Naruto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oviostron/pseuds/oviostron
Summary: Time can only tell. Time can only heal. Time can only be. Uzumaki Naruto found it in himself that this isn't true, after realizing Kaguya would decimate all he knew. Time only ruins. But the one time it decides that it can tell and heal, it nearly kills him.Meanwhile, Izuna draws a deep breath of fear, and expects blood to get in his eyes as Tobirama rushes him. Instead, he gets a face full of yellow, and a longer life.OR: madara asks for a slice of good fortune from any nearby deity. this namikaze menma kid definitely can't be it.[tags to be added]
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Senju Hashirama & Senju Tobirama & Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito, Senju Tobirama/Original Female Character(s), Uchiha Izuna & Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Izuna & Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Madara/Original Female Character(s), Uzumaki Naruto & Original Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [anachronism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19759762) by [strangegoingson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangegoingson/pseuds/strangegoingson). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy

** trasecolare **

_ —to be dumbfounded; gobsmacked. _

* * *

There is a gentle breeze that Madara leans into. The maple tree rustles and groans just as gentle. The tension in his shoulders relax slightly, the peaceful evening seeping into his muscles. It's beginning to get cold, but not cold enough to chase him inside.

“Nii-sama,” Izuna calls. “Your tea is ready. Would you like any sweets with it? Menma bought dango before he skittered off earlier this evening. Miho-chan isn’t around to eat the chichi dango in time. It’ll go bad if it’s not eaten soon.”

“Hn. Bring it here,” he replies. How nice of Menma to buy it and bring it for the family. He almost never buys dango for home. He’s buying it as a treat, fresh in the store.

Izuna settles next to his brother, a platter in his hands. A steaming tea kettle rests next to two empty cups, some two-pronged delicacy forks, and a small plate of chichi dango. The colorful rice sweets bring a gentle smile to Madara’s face. Chichi dango. Miho and Izuna’s favorite. The cups are filled to the brims, one carefully passed over and sipped at. “See? He got my favorites…all of them, and then some. For us, Kaito-kun, Haneko-chan and Miho-chan,” Izuna murmurs. Something makes his voice quiver. “I ate some of the other ones, but I know you enjoy chichi dango, too, so I thought I’d share them with you.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Madara says. He turns his face to his younger brother, his expression carefully soft and pointed. “Did something happen between you and Menma-kun? You two seemed fine this morning.”

Izuna takes a moment to think, his hands fiddling with the delicate fork. “Hn. He was acting strange. I could tell he was in a lot of pain today, you know? Which, he usually isn’t, but I asked, and he said he would be fine because of his kekkei genkai, but…”

Madara lets out a breath of air, understanding why Izuna’s shoulders are not as slanted as his own. “But the cost of the kekkei genkai being used is too much,” he finishes.

“Yes, precisely. I just don’t understand why he uses it so much, if I were to be honest. I know enough medicine to be able to help in most cases.”

“He’s a stubborn one. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“Ha! I’ve lost my temper plenty of times over it.”

Madara chuckles. “I’m sure you have, otouto.”

Izuna huffs, a slight pout pushing at his lips. “It’s what makes him Menma, I guess…”

“Well, regardless of that, have you discovered why else our dearest Namikaze was acting so off?” Madara inquires.

Izuna shrugs. “I haven’t the slightest. All I could tell was that his chakra was off—but I assumed it was because of his injuries, y’know? Whatever they were.”

Madara cradles his cup to his lips, the steam shyly curling off his drink as the evening gets colder. He says nothing at first, much deeper in his thoughts over Menma than he thinks he should be. But is there even something to say? It’s not like he’ll get any answers. He isn’t as close to Menma as Izuna is, and the Namikaze knows how to craft a conversation while answering questions sufficiently enough. There’s a reason why he’s Kitsune.

A sigh escapes the younger Uchiha. “He might talk when he gets home tonight,” he murmurs, his hand finally reaching out for his cup of tea. “Maybe I can bring in—“

Madara pulls the cup from his lips and turns his face to Izuna again. “What was that, otouto?”

A loud crack had cut off Izuna.

Eerily, Izuna raises his own cup for the both of them to see. Sure enough, there’s a rather large crack cutting through the clay.

Before any of them could ponder it much more, six fairly medium-sized black orbs race above the yard of the Uchiha compound. They mend themselves into a humongous umbrella, blocking out the dusk and star light. Barely seconds later, a horrifically large explosion lights itself above the strange dome. It doesn’t budge. Silverware and tea shakes, spills, and the Uchiha brothers scatter themselves for battle.

The chichi dango is immediately forgotten.

* * *

The night wind is very cold. It bites at Naruto’s fingers, claws at his cheeks, and nibbles the lobes of his ears. The clouds are heavy with water, threatening to snow if it got any bigger, and his body warmth is evaporating quicker than it’s generating. But the monster facing him from across the somewhat small village screams, and a wash of smelly breath and hot air hits him. It would’ve expelled the cold if it weren’t for the blast of wind that follows. Naruto lets out a sigh of sadness. “Don’t make me do this, my friend…”

He roars, anger and power thrown into the streets of Konoha. He can see it from the Hokage Mountain: People are flying, buildings are crumpling, and shinobi are struggling. Tails swish in the air, and the beast rotates his head to scan his surroundings. Naruto feels his eyes watering up, and it’s not from the dry, cold wind. He winces slightly when a hand clasps onto his shoulder. It becomes clear to the owner of the hand that Naruto is heartbroken.

“What will you do, tou-chan?” the young man asks. Crystal eyes face clear orbs. “Kurama is killing our comrades. We need to handle this. No…you need to handle this.”

Naruto’s brow furrows, his lips pressing together in distress as he watches tendrils of Mokuton reach and wrap around the beast in attempts of restraint. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Have you ever thought such a power could exist, son? A bijuu so hateful, it blinds itself?”

The landscape is stared at. “…I don’t quite get what you mean,” he mutters.

Naruto laughs. Tears shed as he draws out his three-pronged Hiraishin kunai. He hands it over to the youth. “Here,” he says over a gentle sob. “Take this, kid. Give it to your kid, your kid’s kid, your kid’s kid’s kid…it’s a treasure.”

The youth takes it in sadness and awe. “Y-you’re giving this to me?” he stutters. Glassy eyes gaze at it, holding it in high-standing as if it were a holy emperor. “Tou-chan…”

Golden fire erupts and shocks Naruto’s son. “You’ll face a creature so powerful one day. And on that day, you’ll need it. Treasure it,” he says. Naruto wraps his arm around his son’s shoulders, planting a kiss on the crown of his yellow hair. And then…he’s gone. In a blur of golden fire, he’s gone. Gone. But he’s facing the bijuu with that strange, golden cloak, and…winning.

His son watches, star struck, as his father takes the colossal battle in stride. He takes it outside of Konoha’s rising walls, dodging bijuudama and tail jabs and claw swipes and withstanding the powerful, earth-shattering shockwaves of the Kyuubi.

The son clutches the special kunai in his hand. He won’t fail his father’s legacy.

So it goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haneko: “wings of a child” / “feather child”  
> Miho: “beauty” / “true beauty”  
> Kaito: “flying ocean” / “soaring sea”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ao3 and slow internet and slow device joined forces to screw me over. this chapter was posted three more times than it was meant to be bc i pressed the button too many times, and then i accidentally deleted the prologue, and then i tried to rearrange my chapters to fit an aesthetic and that just.. didnt work out, haha. so, yay?
> 
> but i figured it out.
> 
> wc: 6.3k or something idk
> 
> enjoy!

** hiraeth **

_ —a homesickness for a home that you can’t return to, or that never was. _

* * *

Had Naruto done something wrong? Did he not proclaim his dreams enough, or try hard enough, or even do enough for that matter? Did he walk outside of the safe stones of a poisonous shrine to be cursed with bad luck? Did he blow a dandelion wrong?

Maybe he had. Maybe he should've been more wary of the spirits out in the world. But, oh, who is he kidding? He is the least superstitious bastard in proximity. He can feel his own mind fold into that logic, though. Did he spit on someone's grave, or something? Because, like, really.  _Really._

Obito is standing before him, his face hollow with exhaustion but his expression resilient. His hand is out. His Rinnegan is glowing, and his Mangekyou Sharingan is spinning. They glitter, deceivingly, and the hunger in his eyes just traps Naruto. Now that he remembers that Obito has a Sharingan, the consideration of genjutsu crosses his mind. But if his Mangekyou is spinning, then doesn't that mean he's charging up chakra? Uchiha can’t cast genjutsu when charging their chakra like that.

"Naruto," he says, loud and pointedly. It might've been the umpteenth time he's had to say that. Or, maybe not. Naruto couldn't know. He continues. "Take my hand. You need to take my hand."

Naruto is projected in front of Kurama rather suddenly. "Will you?"

"Huh?" He must be getting dumber and dumber with each use of his Rikudou Sennin powers.

"Will you take his hand, Naruto?" Kurama's voice is scary in the fact that, while he remains sounding neutral, he is also very deliberate in making certain that his jinchuuriki can see a promise glistening in his expression. Still yet, his words contradict the veil. "Kaguya could never be killed. She is integrated into the natural order just by the nature of her power. The Shinju is…terrifying. And, quite frankly, I want to murder it just for its existence. But we can't. It's natural."

Naruto is staring, dumbly, and couldn't connect the dots. "What are you saying?"

Kurama slams his paw on the ground. The water splashes everywhere, but Naruto doesn't move. "I'm saying that we can fix this. You can save your friends. We can stop the Fourth War completely."

"…By taking Obito's hand."

" _Yes_!"

Naruto rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm…”

"Take his hand, brat."

Obito's hand gesture pulls him from the seal. It beckons him, premeditated and true. "Naruto. The clock is ticking. Your decision is the game changer," he says. "What will you do?"

Kurama divides his attention.  _Do it, brat. Save yourself from the pain of losing everything._

Those words coming from Kurama, a mass of hate, pushes Naruto to step forward. The world is behind him now, the fighting and the words of his allies being repelled by White Zetsu and Kaguya's boiling rage. The Shinju towers, and the sheer power being displayed is…

Well, it doesn't even matter anymore, does it? He grabs Obito's hand, gold against white, and looks into the soul of the Uchiha. "I've decided," he says. "Now change the game."

Obito smiles as he stares at their conjoined hands. It's not a grin that eats shit, or a smug smirk. It's knowing, and soft, and his eyes yield to a type of narrowness that could imply a fond emotion. But it melts away into a condescending blankness that could make anyone uneasy. "You'll never see us again," he states. His gaze shifts and meet Naruto's red, Kyuubi eyes. "Are you ready for that? I doubt you'll be able to say good bye. What you see here is the last thing you'll ever get of your friends."

Naruto pauses. Doubt curls in the cavities of his body as he turns to look over his head. Kakashi, Sasuke, Minato, Tobirama, Hashirama, Hiruzen, Sakura, Gai, Lee…hell, even Akamaru is doing his damn best even though Kiba and his whole team are dead. If Obito's plan works, and this is the last he'll ever see of them…

"I can’t say goodbye?" Naruto echoes.

"I can't let go of your hand," Obito corrects. "The instant I let go of you, Naruto, you're gone."

Naruto bursts into laughter. It's sudden, almost alarming, and it makes tears fall down his cheeks. All form of control over his emotions seem to have disappeared in the moment, but it comes back to him. A chance to save who he could…to stop Kaguya, and Madara, because if he turns his head back around, he knows that Sasuke is bleeding heavily, Sakura‘s chakra is entirely depleted, Kakashi's limping way too hard, Gai's chakra is beginning to kill him…the list can go on. This battle will kill the rest of them at this rate.

So, he yells.

"Tou-chan! Kakashi-sensei! Sakura-chan! Sasuke!" For a moment, they glance at him. Minato, Kakashi, Sasuke, Sakura. Their eyes shine with recognition, and are glazed with exhaustion. Naruto pumps his fist up in the air and grins triumphantly despite the implications of the battle and his pre-mortem thought process. "I love you guys dattebayo!"

"How lovely," Obito murmurs. There's no mockery in his tone, just a slight of fondness. "Naruto. I'm going to let go."

"Oh! Obito—hey!" Naruto turns quickly and faces him. Obito waits for his words. "I really, really hate you for the things you did 'ttebayo! And so does Kurama, of course, but…" He smiles again. "I forgive you, dattebayo! I really, really do. You should forgive yourself, too!"

Something makes Obito blink. He covers his face with his other forearm, but before Naruto could understand that this hateful Uchiha is crying, Obito lets go. Naruto blinks. He blinks only once, and that is all that is needed for his surroundings to just…disappear. No sound, no light, no feeling, no burst of chakra. Just a well-aged forest, a dark night sky, and the wisps of his golden cloak.

Naruto stares at his hand. His empty, golden hand. He blinks in surprise. "Oh."

When is he, anyways?

* * *

The instant Obito's hand releases Naruto, Kaguya screams. Her shrill cry is horrible, and echoes beyond the horizon. It rips into her opponent's ear drums, and makes everyone who could hear cover their ears and writhe in pain. Obito grimaces, yes, but he doesn't move to cover his ears. Instead, he turns over to witness what is happening to that demonic woman.

He stares in slight surprise. She's turning to dust.

As her body shreds itself apart, Obito takes the chance to leap up into the fray oncemore. But something catches his eye.

Sasuke is turning to dust. Minato's eyeballs are fading from black to white. Sakura loses the muscle defintion from her experience as a kunoichi. Hashirama, Tobirama and Hiruzen are flaking. And Obito—oh, he can feel it. He's turning into the flaky dust, too. He’s…disappearing…fading…becoming non-existent. He won’t be anything beyond a pile of dust in a few minutes.

So, he does what he's always wanted to do, and he hugs Kakashi.

The Hatake doesn't receive any warning beyond a moment to understand that he's being touched. He stops, remains still, and stares at Kaguya. His eyes widen. "She's…disappearing?" he mumbles in confusion. Obito hears it loud and clear despite Kakashi's belief that he had his volume low enough to not be acknowledged.

"You know, I can safely say I regret doing everything in my lifetime," Obito says confidently. "I regret and hate and have this deep anger within me. It killed Minato and Kushina, and so many more of your allies. All in the name of a fake reality, too, and now it might not become a thing in the first place."

Kakashi looks down to Obito, frowning. The scar on his face is gone, and both of his eyes are black. Oh, how the changes happen. Naruto did good, he supposes, for someone who has a habit of making a mess. Perhaps he'd chosen wrong, though. Kakashi is staring at him in conflict, uncertain of who is hugging him or why he is being hugged.

"Maybe Naruto hadn't been the best choice," Obito voices his concerns. "Maybe Sasuke, or you, even, should've gone. But he has changed me for the better. I don't see why he wouldn't be able to save Madara."

Kakashi's frown solidifies, and dread rips through Obito as the disintegration reaches his shoulders. "Who…” he tries.

"Oh! My bad, my bad, 'kashi…right. Right. Who am I." No question, no confusion. Obito knows.

And, before Kakashi can ask again, and especially before Obito can answer, there is nothing left but dust to be carried away by the wind.

* * *

The biggest hint to the broad overview of when he is comes from the feeling of the natural chakra. In his moments of meditation, Naruto can feel the age of the chakra around him. It's very old, rather ancient, and noticeably swirls in a selective way. Like a whirlpool with a mind of its own.

However, with his Sennin chakra still fresh and present, it's obvious that this natural chakra is young. Very young, in fact. Maybe a century, maybe half a century. He can feel it swirling very tenderly at the tip of his toes.

Kurama hums gently in the back of his mind.  _ I would know this natural chakra anywhere. This is the Warring States Era. Although I can not say the exact year, I trust Obito wouldn't place us in ruthlessly ancient times. Hopefully we landed right around when Hashirama and Madara are heads of their clan. Saves on time, literally. _

All Naruto knows of the Warring States Era is that Hashirama and Madara dreamt of a world where children wouldn't die in war. It happened regardless, many decades later, but that dream had remained true well past the halfway mark of the Second Shinobi War. Naruto, in the very least, remembers that piece of history from the Academy. He remembers laughing at it, too, because of the irony of the foundational dreams and what he was trying to become. There he had been, learning the foundations of the current shinobi world at the age of eight and on the track to graduating as a genin at the young age of twelve.

The dark forest chirps with life, the only light originating from the fox fire Kurama pushes out around his favorite jinchuuriki. There is no moon lurking about in this specific night, the stars are covered and the clouds that weave together hide the sky light almost too well—like charcoal on pure, white paper.

"Kurama," Naruto calls. He pushes some underbrush aside and lets out a squeal of surprise when a slithering sensation touches his toes. He backs as far away as he possibly could. "K-Kurama…”

_ Hm? _

"Where—no…when am I? Do you know, like specifically? Because I can't navigate myself in this darkness, and this forest is unnaturally thick." He turns his head around. Forests have brown, and are skinny above the hip. This forest, on the other hand, is very…oh, how can he put it? It's far too green. There isn't a single dead leaf despite the oak families, and it feels heavy. Naruto can sense the swirling currents of the natural chakra. They're rich with nature, and would likely re-grow anything that gets ripped or damage within seconds.

_This is a young forest. I know you can feel it, too. It's more than likely a Mokuton forest._

Naruto places himself in front of the Kyuubi no Kitsune. "Kurama," he says quietly.

The big, red bijuu narrows his looking eye a little bit. "What?"

Tears begin to brim, prickles of the water threatening to spill almost immediately, and then actually spilling a few seconds later. He lets out a soft sniffle. He doesn't have an ugly crying face just yet, but Kurama can see and feel his pain. The bijuu lowers his head, graceless in the pool of water, and lets Naruto lean on him in comfort. A sob rips into his fur as Naruto suddenly begins to realize the weight of his decision. Perhaps it hadn't been wise, although more than enough times Naruto has made unwise decisions in the face of desperation that has made Minato stare at him in odd ways. Maybe his father had been seeing Kushina. Who knows.

It's not like he'd ever be able to ask again, anyways.

The thought of it shakes his whole body with another strong sob, almost yelling. It may be muffled, but Naruto feels Kurama's slight irritation at the sudden burst of tears. He simply remains understanding of the situation, though, and Naruto's reaction to it. Kurama couldn't help but think that Obito placed too much faith in them to change the course of history. The war created fears in an eighteen year old that never should be there, and the losses at the hands of Kaguya places an unbreakable boulder on the young Uzumaki. Hinata's death had been the heaviest of them all, just because it had been so gruesome and disrespectful. Kurama had made certain Naruto didn’t witness it. But the aftermath had been…bloody.

"Naruto," he rumbles. "You need to gather yourself, gaki. We need to find a place to rest. The forest may have thick underbrush, but who is to say that Hashirama can't just waltz right up to us?"

Naruto pulls his wet face away and sniffles. His eyes are heavy, and his face is creased with heavy emotion. "C-could you take over? Please."

Kurama almost objects, and would've pointed out that if he did then the Mokuton forest will be a rather bad dampener on his power, but taking a second look at his jinchuuriki...the kid needs to rest. He needs to take a break, and sleep, and let himself recuperate from the previous week-long battle that had even an Edo Tensei crumpling to his knees. "Very well," he says smoothly. "Sleep, then. I shall take care of the rest, Naruto."

His eyes slip close very easily, and he collapses. Kurama only clutches Naruto in his paw, and trades places. Naruto will be knocked out for as long as he pleases. He just needs to keep the kid in his closed fist.

* * *

Kurama scans his surroundings. He takes a whiff, mucus getting in his way, and scrubs his face with his human hand. Wet tears disappear, the headache alleviates itself, and his fox fires strength. One grows in his hand, and he watches as it floats forward in the act of a guiding light. Nocturnal creatures scatter, and the natural chakra comes to life. His Sennin eyes can see it all swirl together like a bunch of small whirlpools when he brushes his fingertips over the bark.

His eyes soften. Mokuton…so much weight is carried in the wood, but it’s so incredibly natural. Kurama can feel its restraint wrapping around his arms and tails already. He shivers. The Senju and Uchiha are bastards, just because of their lineage.

A clang of metal echoes. It’s very distant, and his sense of hearing would’ve missed it if it weren’t for Naruto’s Sennin chakra. But he hears it again, and again, and again, and he realizes that it’s a battle. So, he turns to face it. He dashes onward, leaping above the green treetops, and from the elevated perch, he can see it. It’s a battle of ninjutsu, blazes of fire and clouds of steam glowing and blowing. So, Suiton and Katon.

The chances of the battle involving Tobirama and Izuna are close to nothing, but all Kurama needs to do is save Izuna. He knows and understands that his death had been a turning point which influenced Madara’s ideology as a dreamer. It’s unsurprising, losing a brother is very…influential. Especially during a time of war. So, he heads off to towards battle. Katon is a strong indication of an Uchiha—they’re naturally acclimated to the flames, and if Kurama can follow the Uchiha, he can find some sufficient means of locating Izuna.

With his own chakra flowing through Naruto’s tenkutsu, it’s an easy journey. The tree tops prove time and time again that they’re not all reliable, but he finds that it just doesn’t matter enough for him to actually care. He arrives on the scene with sharp senses, eyes scanning the scene of the battle. White hair, blue armor—black hair, black cloak, a fan. It’s most definitely Tobirama and, at the very least, an Uchiha. A very skilled and powerful, Uchiha, too, going by the Katon jutsu, and the fact that Tobirama seems exhausted.

Kurama lands on a large oak tree branch. It’s one of the last strong Mokuton trees in this vast forest before it completely begins to blend into a normal, non-Mokuton forest. He watches the scene carefully. Steam, dust, smoke and displaced logs are scattered everywhere. The river’s direction is disrupted and displaced by the Suiton user, and some fallen trees are burning. Kunai appropriate to the time period are scattered, and shuriken are buried deep in the logs. This battle has been going on for…for a while, it seems. The night has been unforgiving to their long fight.

And they were still fighting. The Uchiha blows streams of fire like a dragon, and Tobirama is gracefully dodging with all of the stamina he can exert in the moment. Kurama stares, carefully averting his eyes and suppressing his chakra so not to alert them or anyone nearby. He is, most definitely, far too visible—but they aren’t going to let themselves get distracted. He can tell just in the fact that they’re fighting well into the dead of night. His heart almost aches for them. What a pointless clan war.

Their fight moves onward. Kurama is getting bored rather fast, though, and the fact that Naruto’s body is weak and tired and shaky makes him feel all the more antsy. His foot is dancing menacingly in one spot almost immediately.

But then—well, Kurama misses part of it because his mind drifts to more savory subjects…still, it doesn’t change the fact that Mokuton tendrils sprout from the pebbles of the river’s shore to attack the Uchiha. Reaching, trying, grabbing. But they’re met and scorched with a volley of Katon fireballs. Kurama glares and snorts in annoyance. Just from that, he can immediately conclude that these are the brothers of the clan heads. This is Izuna and Tobirama’s battle. Kurama remembers, listening within the seal from Mito’s perspective, Hashirama recounting this detail. It’s deep and emotional to them, for whatever reason, and Kurama is only interested in saving Izuna right now. For Naruto, and Naruto only. Madara can fuck off, and Hashirama can suck it.

Conversation carries down the river, muffled but with clear emotion. Kurama doesn’t bother trying to extend his senses like that. The raw feeling in their voices is enough. Madara is hoarse with betrayal, Izuna is angry, Tobirama is confused, and Hashirama is desperate to, most likely, explain himself. It could be related to the fight between Izuna and Tobirama, or it could be on some sort of relationship-based emotion. It doesn’t matter, though. Kurama lets his chakra melt away, replacing its signature entirely with the Sage chakra to blend in with nature. He uses shunshin to disappear from his place, and deliberately lands right behind who he logically assumes is Izuna. Tobirama and Hashirama are the only ones who could actually see him appear. Of course, his influence makes Naruto appear more menacing than anything—but he’s certain that his lack of presence is the most eerie part.

He reaches out, and bumps the base of his palm into the small of Izuna’s back as he exits his shunshin. The momentum he carries and the force of his strength pushes Izuna forward in a stumble. Madara realizes what’s happening, and reacts immediately. His katana is drawn and moves to slash Kurama’s arm off, but the mark of Hiraishin is already imprinted onto Izuna, and he moves too fast to be cut by a regular blade. He tucks himself forward, jamming his fist into Madara’s stomach. He chokes out of surprise and pain. He would’ve been thrown back from sheer force, but Kurama uses his other free hand to hold onto the Uchiha’s collar.

“Nii-sama!”

He can hear it before he can see it. A kunai whizzes through the air, aiming for his jugular. Kurama raises his arm and blocks it just in time, dropping Madara to the ground as he pulls the weapon from his flesh. His odd eyes obviously take Izuna off guard. It leaves an opening perfect for the bijuu to take. He charges forward, kunai aiming straight for Izuna’s own throat, but he makes certain to shunshin away just in time. As far as Izuna is concerned, a kunai is in his throat. Madara can’t catch his breath, and the Senju witnessing the suddenness only remain speechless.

Shock leaves the group in silence, and from Kurama’s hiding space, it’s a delicious sight to eat up.

* * *

The rabbit is easy but small. Kurama is selective in the way he crouches down, and leaps out at the creature. His hands clamp down on its neck, easily crushing the bones of its spinal cord. By the feel of the spine pressing against his palm, this animal wouldn’t have much in it to be a fulfilling dinner—but it’s the most Kurama can do for his jinchuuriki at the moment. He can feel the weakness of hunger gnawing and gnashing at every fiber of Naruto’s body. It’s mandatory that he eats when he feels like this; Naruto wouldn’t hesitate to give him an earful.

A flicker of Katon chakra lights the logs he’d redundantly collected a few hours earlier. The dry leaves curl in pain at being burned by the strong flame, but they easily become ash. As the flame grows, Kurama settles next to the generous blaze and pulls a dagger from Naruto’s weapon pouch. He begins to skin his catch, keeping it in one piece best he could for the potential of being able to use it later. For what, he doesn’t know. But he also knows Naruto can brainstorm a few ideas. As far as Kurama is concerned, these are the forests of Konohagakure. It’s a home and a comfort to Naruto, and a place of mixed feelings for Kurama.

The feelings, of course, are nothing compared to what Naruto makes him feel. The travesty of the Kyuubi will always be the Uchiha’s fault. Saving Izuna has been a priority; Kurama finds that the priority makes his hatred lively and more true than ever. But it had been a turning point in Madara’s lifetime—perhaps having Izuna around would prevent his defection and, eventually, his death. Kurama also understands that the stupid, sacred tablet the Uchiha hold so dearly close to their hearts also pushed Madara to defect.

So, Izuna’s death is the foremost important thing for Kurama to handle at the current moment. He doesn’t know how long that’ll be—but he has to assume that it could be soon. Neither Kurama nor Naruto are proficient in the details of history, but this is a life story fix more than anything. Kurama refuses to feel ashamed for not knowing.

Secondly, the tablet. Kurama may just destroy it before anyone can read it. Only an Eternal Mangekyō can read it. Madara becomes incredibly close to the edge, mere moments away from completely subduing to the Uchiha’s Curse of Hatred, first when Izuna dies and second when Hashirama becomes the Shodai. The tablet pushes him over the edge. That is what Kurama knows, and it’s what he’ll go with for now. It’s all good if his intel says otherwise. Hopefully.

When the rabbit is well-done, and the fire runs low, Kurama stands. He scarfs down the cooked animal, grabbing the semi-dry skin and leaping into the trees above. He sits still on a branch, and extends his sensory perceptions. If his fox ears were manifested, they would be twitching and turning like crazy. There are birds stirring, and nocturnal creatures scurrying, and the morning dew is nearly finished with its gathering. The air is semi-damp with the seasonal cold stiffening the joints of the unaccustomed, but a layer of freshness is settling as the sun begins to rise. It won’t be warm for another few hours, but Kurama has always found the smells to be serene enough as they are. They’re the richest and most mixed right before dawn, and are worn down or completely dissipated by dusk.

Regardless of the beauty of dawn that he adores, he needs to find Izuna and Madara—or, in the very least, Izuna—without the use of Hiraishin. His sudden appearance would be alarming, and in the time of war, it would be reason enough to be held captive for interrogation, torture and be subjugated to the likes of the Sharingan again. Kurama doesn’t want to be controlled by the Sharingan for a third time.

He launches himself to the tree tops once more, and scans his surroundings. For miles, it’s nothing but greenery and darkness. Yes, he could wander and ponder, but if he loses track of himself then he might miss out on something. Hell, he knows he’s missing out right now. But his approach from yesterday night more than likely made ripples already. Out of worry, Madara might try and successfully keep Izuna at home base. But what then? Who will Tobirama fight, and kill?

Because Kurama also knows that Tobirama is a bastard. He hates the Uchiha, and doesn’t share some of Hashirama’s views in the least bit. It had left a bitter taste in the back of Mito’s throat once upon a time—she didn’t care enough to stop the Nidaime-sama. It’s somewhat fair, he supposes. The Uchiha and Uzumaki neither destroyed nor helped one another during this era.

As he stares, he feels Naruto’s joints begin to ache. The cold is seeping into his bones, but he ignores it. He just stands up and stares, eyes remaining sharp and watchful like a hunting hawk. He can see wisps of dew evaporating from the leaves as the warming dawn melts into a gentle sunrise. It’s spring, if Kurama‘s sense of nature is precisely correct—and it always is—and the birds are rising for the early worms. Their flutters and chirps fill his ears as time continues moving with the sun, but he remains watchful of his surroundings. The world around him is beginning to tense up. The gentle smell of human activity is wafting in the air, and it catches his attention almost immediately. It’s Uchiha, Senju, metal, smoke, and blood.

It’s a battle.

Kurama leaps in the general direction. His eyes dart around as he pauses every other tree top or so, taking a whiff and a glance to make certain he doesn’t miss any details. As he draws closer, the trees begin to space out and blur into a meadow—but the grass is stripped, burning and smoking as the Uchiha-Senju battle goes on. There’s clangs of clashing metal, kunai flying with spurts of fresh blood. Battle cries and death screams echo familiarly in Kurama’s ears. His eyes search tediously for Izuna and Tobirama—or Izuna, in the very least, and it’s becoming hard to find him. A sense of panic is flooding through his body, making his heart thud and his hands wet clay. The gentle, fearful question echoes in his head; what if he can’t find Izuna in time? He’ll need to approach and heal the young royal, and that may be…a disaster. One he would need to awaken Naruto for, and he isn’t too keen on rising his jinchuuriki just yet. He can still feel pain, and the shock of the pain, coursing in his muscles from lack of physical sleep and chakra exhaustion.

But then—oh. Is he too late? He might be…he does spot Madara with an Uchiha slung over his shoulders after all. But…Tobirama and Hashirama are nowhere to be seen nearby. Regardless, his eyes track Madara through smoke and blood. The Uchiha is given to medics, and the moment Madara knows his clansman is in safe, healing hands, he uses shunshin to get to where he wants to be. Kurama loses him in that moment, and a flash of panic floods him, but it melts into relief and surprise when he hears him screaming.

“ _Hashirama_!”

Ah. So, the brothers are beginning their battle. Kurama’s eyes glue to the duo. Hashirama’s facing Madara, katana drawn proudly and poised to attack against Madara’s sickle and gunbai. The old war weapons make him feel nostalgic, but he brushes it off as he pulls himself to a stand. The weak, skinny oak tree groans under his movement, but he makes certain to keep his body steady and his feet glued to the bark. Izuna and Tobirama are beginning their fight; Kurama notices the caution they practice against one another. Izuna is wincing and Tobirama won’t run. They’re more than likely injured from last night’s clash.

Regardless, they still fight with strong heart and spirit. Kurama nearly regrets standing; nothing of importance is happening just yet. Or…or is it? His Sennin eyes activate. He can see the chakra flow, now, and the way that Tobirama is charging it up is…unnerving.

Kurama doesn’t take it for granted.

That ruthless Senju is planning to attack with his deadly Hiraishin, and Izuna isn’t ready to counter it. No one is, typically, but that’s the whole point. Smart and cunning as he is, Minato had made, that the surprise is the turn point in battle, very clear during the Fourth Shinobi War when he was teaching Naruto how to use it. And Uzumaki Naruto, the boy full of surprises, knows how to use it unnervingly well. Kurama can’t say he does, but he also knows Naruto has muscle memory despite Kurama’s control. He can make it work.

Mist fills Tobirama’s surroundings. Kurama realizes with a start that the Suiton jutsu is his queue to jump in. He leaps forward off the oak branch, activating Hiraishin. The world blurs and his senses drop into an abyss for a split moment, but it becomes clear again. Dampness soaks into his worn clothing and disgusting hair, but there’s an Uchiha clan symbol in front of his face now. He wraps his arms around Izuna’s waist, yanking him off his feet. Kurama spins on the balls of his feet, turning his back towards Tobirama and leaping as far away as he can from the dangerous slash.

Still yet, he feels it. Tobirama’s sword slashes through his back, digs through his lung, and emerges from the left side of his chest. Pain blossoms, and blood enters a now collapsed lung, but he disregards it and teleports away from the battle field without a second glance.

The moment they land, Kurama releases the Uchiha and rolls away. He crouches and cradles his chest, blood streaming between his fingers in a heavy waterfall. His breathing wheezes. But he carefully streams in his bijuu chakra to, at the very least, inflate and heal his lung. The rest may be handled later.

Izuna finally comes to when he can breathe easy. He leaps to his feet, a kunai in hand and poised to defend or attack. His Sharingan race around, and they easily land on Naruto. Wide, alert, panting and teased with a slight of battered blood, his face twists into an observant, tender glare as he finally understands what he is seeing. He narrows his eyes. “Who are you?”

Kurama opens his mouth to speak, ready to project his voice, but all that comes out is a glob of saliva, blood and phlegm. He coughs harder than he had thought he would. His body throbs gently with pain, but he still stands. He wipes his chin free of any stray liquids, and spits the remains from his mouth. “You’re welcome,” he rasps. He points to the hole in his chest. “I took this for you, you ungrateful bastard.”

Izuna stares for a moment. Something flickers in his eyes, and his shoulders seem to almost relax, but he doesn’t lower his weapon nor does he deactivate his doujutsu. Kurama knows that his Sennin eyes block out the genjutsu—it’s something he’s eternally grateful for.

Izuna just shakes his head. “And how do I know I can trust you, you knave?” he snarks. “You could have just kidnapped me for all I know.”

Kurama supposes it’s a fair suspicion. He dropped them down onto his previous camp. It’s a few miles away from the battle field, but still far enough that it’s a valid reason to believe to be kidnapped. Perhaps to get to Madara, is what Izuna is figuring, as an interested third party. Kurama doesn’t let it reel his mind, though. He just pinches his brow and comes across as defensive. “Maybe I did. You still aren’t dead.”

“Take me back!” he demands.

“Why? So the hole in my chest becomes another useless scar?” Kurama snaps. He bares his bloody fangs in menace. “Just accept that I saved you!”

“I was fighting in my clan’s honor! I would’ve died in my clan’s honor!” Izuna shouts. He regains and accumulates all tension previously lost. “Now they’ll label me as a coward because of  _ you _ !”

Kurama braces himself as Izuna lurches forward. He nearly stumbles onto his face, but he regains his balance and pounces gracelessly onto his perceived enemy. Kurama buckles his knees and lets the weight of the Uchiha land on his uninjured side, rolling and turning the tide of the attack quickly. He pins Izuna down on his back, the kunai rolling out of reach as Kurama sits on his stomach and pins his arms down. He makes certain to keep his grip tight to prevent the bastard from trying anything again. But…looking closer now, Kurama can see the uncanny resemblance to Sasuke.

He keeps staring. The only stark difference between the two had to be the voice, the chakra and the bangs that hang over his forehead. The eye shape, jaw structure, the shape of his nose—it’s so…scary, because it’s so incredibly familiar.

Izuna scoffs, and it snaps Kurama out of his stupor. “Get off of me, you creep.”

Kurama narrows his eyes. “Then don’t attack me, you bastard.”

He glares, but says nothing to that. He accepts the justification, then. “Hn. Okay,” he grumbles. “Will you at least explain to me why you decided to save me, of all the Uchiha out there? Is it because Madara is my brother?”

Kurama busts out a gruff and bold laugh. “It is!” he says boisterously. “Funny. You guessed it right on the mark!”

Izuna sneers. “Hey—fuck you!”

Red Sennin eyes scorch the Sharingan. “Hm,” is all he responds to that.

“Are you trying to blackmail my brother?” he snaps. “It won’t work. I’ll kill myself before then!”

“Sage, calm down!”

“I’ll fucking do it, you shit—“

Kurama steps on Izuna’s arm and slaps his hand over his loudmouth. Yeah, there’s the biggest difference right there. Sasuke is no zealot loudmouth. A zealot, maybe…but not a loudmouth. “Tsk. Stupid Uchiha. You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

A muffled curse spills.

Kurama leans in close, eyes sharp and careful. “What would your death have accomplished, hm?” he questions, his voice low and sly. “Where would it have taken your brother? You know he would’ve killed the whole world, and then some, if it meant saving you.”

Izuna continues his bloody red glare.

“Your brother would’ve continued the war if you had died,” Kurama hisses. “More children would’ve died. More Uchiha would perish. All in the name of avenging you, because you decided to die for clan and honor.”

His steely gaze falters. But Kurama knows that his words are wearing him down more than enough.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he growls. “What do you even fight for, anyways? What kind of honor needs children to die? For the sake of the Sage, you need to stop. Accept it as it is, Uchiha Izuna; your clan is dying and will die the more you continue this pointless war.” He pushes his hand harder against Izuna’s mouth. “Do not test me. I will gladly snap your neck. As long as the Senju don’t kill you.”

Confusion crosses his face, but Kurama doesn’t give him the chance to answer. He raises his hand from his mouth, and promptly punches the bastard in the face hard enough to crack a bone. He lets out a sigh of relief as Izuna goes limp.

That’s a crisis averted. It’s good enough for now.

Or at least Kurama hopes so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've always had a head canon that izuna was sasuke's descendant.
> 
> reviews are appreciated! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u to those who’ve given me feedback and kudos! :)
> 
> this chapter has a perspective shift. i personally felt like it was a bit awkward, but in the end it worked out pretty smoothly.
> 
> wc: 6.1kish
> 
> enjoy!

** parastin **

— _protect_.

* * *

Kurama turns his face up to the sun that peeks through the vibrant oak leaves. It’s the second morning he’s been in the Warring States Era. The air is fresh and easy on his skin, and the greenery around him is dewy from the night’s moisture settling down. The spring season is gentle on his nose, and his ears can pick up the small purities of everyday life. Bugs crunching on leaves, gentle buzzes of busy bees, others crawling or squirming below the undergrowth. Birds are singing again, each song in harmony of another as the day begins to pass by. The fire he had made the previous night had been re-lit for the sake of Izuna—but now it’s nothing but a stream of old smoke and charcoals.

Kurama is a distance away from the unconscious Uchiha, his back up against a thick trunk. He’s tucked himself between two bigger roots, his left leg stretched out to give the left side of his body room. He knows it seems stupid—but he also knows that it’s questionable when an odd shinobi with a Sage Mode, strange yet powerful chakra, and knowledge of Hiraishin pops in to save one of the strongest Uchiha of this generation, leaves wounded, and is all healed the next morning. He keeps his bijuu power trickling through his body, understanding that Naruto is no longer running on fumes but rather pure chakra.

This is dangerous territory. Naruto may be an Uzumaki but this endurance Kurama is forcing on him, physically, eats out years of his life. He’s just thankful he can keep his jinchuuriki unconscious through this dire situation.

The physical pain from Kaguya’s battle and Obito’s stunt would have broken him.

He places a sore hand over his wound. It’s crusty and tender at this point, but he can breathe in the very least…if barely. The only reason Kurama keeps it around at this point is to deceive those around him. For now, at least, he will. It hurts to even just breathe now, but the chakra nullifies it enough that Kurama can still push it. Naruto won’t die, nor will he suffer, under his watch.

Izuna groans, his hand shooting up to his swollen lip. He winces when he touches it, grimacing at his own battle-worn soreness. He opens his eyes, blinking multiple times to get the unconscious bleariness out of his sight. He rises with strained muscles, obviously struggling to see clearly.

Kurama tilts his head a little. The shift in movement does nothing to catch Izuna’s attention. “Awake, are you?” he comments lightly.

The Uchiha jolts out of his daze. He reaches for a sword that isn’t there. To his dismay, his last kunai is hidden under some fern. Kurama made certain to kick it away before calling it a night. Izuna glares. “What of it?” he snaps. He stumbles to his feet, grunting at the painful soreness in his body.

Kurama stands as well, leaning on the trunk of the large and very young oak tree. “Take me to a place I can rest,” he states.

Izuna gives him a skeptical look.

“This wound will kill me,” he says, “if I don’t get medical attention.”

His eyes land on it. They carefully study, evaluate, and decide when he realizes that would’ve been the wound he’d have died to if it weren’t for this bastard. “Only if you tell me your name,” he says. “And only if I bring you back to my clan’s medicinal center.”

“And pigs can fly,” Kurama jeers under his breath. He hacks up red phlegm and spits it out. “Fine…I—“

Fake. He’s fake. And the fakest Naruto he can think of…

“Namikaze Menma,” he says reluctantly, “‘s my name. Just call me Menma.”

“Hm. Alright, Menma-san,” Izuna mutters. “I’m sure you know my name. In case you don’t, though—“

“Uchiha Izuna,” Kurama states. “Madara’s only living brother, and hailed as one of the strongest Uchiha of the generation.”

Izuna lets his face remain unmoved and flat. “Yes.”

“Moving on. I bet you’re about to ask where we are,” Kurama continues. “We’re in a forest nearly two clicks east of that battlefield I took you from.”

Something flickers in Izuna’s eyes, but it disappears before Kurama can really observe it enough to analyze it. “I see. Then…follow me. If you can even keep up, that is. You look…”

Kurama clicks his tongue in annoyance, raising his fist in accusation as he shouts, “I’m perfectly fine!” But his ribs and stomach say otherwise. Their revolting pain makes him keel almost completely, but he keeps himself from falling past his knee. Sage, this is so fucking stupid.

Izuna sighs and starts stepping towards his new companion. He reaches to seemingly grab Kurama, but he doesn’t let that happen. Izuna grits his teeth as his wrist aches under the pressure of the sudden grip. He makes certain to keep his poise as non-threatening as possible. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he states. “I know some emergency first aid. I can help you work out your wounds, if only a little.”

Kurama glares, fangs barren and expression menacing as he tries to intimidate Izuna out of the assistance. But it becomes very obvious very quickly that it won’t work out in his prideful way. “Fine,” he mumbles. “I’ll punch your face again if you do anything funny.”

Izuna smiles nervously, rubbing his wrist as Kurama lets go. His tongue clicks in a tsk, shaking his head as he moves to assist Kurama. Shousen Jutsu glows in the palm of his other hand, looming over the small hole in his back. Already the pain begins to alleviate. Kurama can feel the intensity of his muscles melting away, like soft fur brushing up against the callouses of his palm. A breath of relief escapes his lungs, one he hadn’t meant to let go, but he knows this body needs rest and relief as soon as possible.

“You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?” Izuna asks, his voice aiming to be as friendly as possible. Kurama can’t say he knows why, if he’s honest, but he refuses to trust it. “I can feel it—this jutsu lets me detect your wounds, and the areas that cause the most pain. Your body is consistently feeling it, isn’t it? It’s a miracle you’re still conscious.”

Kurama knows poking and prodding when he hears it. This can be considered an interrogation. Kurama would gladly tell him off, but the way this is playing out would leave Naruto…helpless and in a blunder. As it is now, Kurama is creating the set-up for a lifelong lie, and when he awakens Naruto, it’ll be up to his jinchuuriki to do whatever he needs with it. For one…it’s better to pass off the whole jinchuuriki thing as something else. Telling the truth would raise more questions than make any answers—like, how did you get yourself in the position to obtain a bijuu? Not to mention he would only be used as a power monopoly. Kurama refuses to be  _ used. _

“Menma-san,” Izuna calls. He huffs when Kurama turns his head. “Not even listening to me? How rude.”

“Hm,” he grunts. “What can I say, you’re just a whole lot of boring small talk…”

The Uchiha glares. “Disrespectful, too,” he mutters. “I was only asking about your physical state. Telling my clan doctors what they need to know beforehand is better than them discovering your wounds and pain, Menma-san.”

“Tch. Just a dying kekkei genkai,” he snarls out.

“Oh? Does it cause the pain or hinder the pain?”

Kurama’s red eyes glare at him, threatening promises flashing in the glow. “Both and neither,” he growls cryptically.

Izuna lets go of the medical aid, his eyes dragging themselves away begrudgingly to avoid any further nerves to be stung. “Hn. We need to start heading towards my home,” he says passively. “The night will be unforgiving to your wounds if we don’t leave now.”

Kurama scoffs. He straightens his back, legs and arms shaking from strain as he moves to stand. Izuna sighs and holds out a hand, quiet and hopeful that it’s taken.

And Kurama does. For the record, Izuna is no ally. But…this will do.

For now, that is. Just for now.

* * *

Kurama can’t say he’s pushed a human body as hard as Naruto, like, ever. Quite honestly, he never had the opportunity. Naruto works with him, yes, but Kurama would be in the passenger seat with one hand on the steering wheel. Right now, he’s driving. He’s jumping, and pushing his chakra through Naruto’s system, and feeling the consequences of it. It stings, and causes aches in places he didn’t think he could get them, and generates a soreness that probably won’t go away for a while. He imagines, watching behind Naruto’s eyes, that he would be like Hatake Kakashi after using the Mangekyou Sharingan far too much.

Admittedly, he understands now. This is why shinobi become bedridden.

“Menma-san!” Izuna calls over his shoulder. “You need to rest!”

“No!” Kurama snaps. “I rest when we get there!”

Izuna might’ve huffed. Kurama can’t tell, though, with the wind howling in his ears from their speed and the way the Uchiha turns his face away. He narrows his eyes, deliberate and watchful. There is no doubt that this man is some sort of great-grandfather to Fugaku or Sasuke. The similarities are too striking. Not to mention, Madara had no children of his own to speak of. The Uchiha Clan does keep a pure lineage, as far as he understands—one very distant Uchiha, and an Uchiha from the main family, must procreate. Kurama can recall in the few moments he’d been awake within Kushina’s seal that Mikoto had been demanded to have at least two children. It might be different, now, but elders are pricks, anyways.

Izuna turns his face back over his shoulder, and falls in step with his new companion. “Why have you been staring at me?” he questions when he is in easy stride with Kurama.

“I don’t stare,” he says defensively. “I  _observe_.”

Izuna chuckles. “Observing my face, hm? That’s a rather questionable defense if I do say so myself, Menma-san.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

Izuna’s eyes turn to the skylight that peeks through the oak leaves. “It’s approaching dusk,” he states, “and we’re still a day’s travel away. We will have to rest for the night.”

Kurama scoffs again, only this time it’s full of anger and bitterness. Another sleepless night, then. But what can he say? It’s not like he didn’t expect this scenario. He looks below the branches for a campsite. It takes a few minutes, but he does find a big enough patch that Kurama knows he can sit in for the night. He lands squarely in the small clearing, Izuna just barely able to react to the sudden change in direction. He stands in front of Kurama, an arm’s length away, and he studies the blond carefully.

“You need sleep,” Izuna finally concludes. He motions towards the nearest oak trunk. “I will gather any supplies for the camp. Go, sit.”

Yes, Kurama can feel himself slumping. No, he will not yield. “And how do you know if I will run away or not?”

It’s finally the Uchiha’s turn to scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “You’re far too injured to do that. You said it yourself, too. You need me for supplies and sanctuary.”

Kurama just narrows his eyes, glaring, but he doesn’t object to it. Instead, he finds himself limping towards the tree that Izuna had pointed out earlier, and nearly collapses against it. He slides down to a sitting position, bending his legs and resting his shaky elbows on the tops of his knee caps. His eyelids are drooping, and his neck can barely stay upright. His shoulders are slumping, and his chest feels tight even as his body wheezes and pants for the easy air that will never come. His heart is beating dangerously fast for someone who is sitting down—but Kurama just pushes more chakra through Naruto’s body. He won’t be able to do this again for a while.

And, in all his weakness, he doesn’t notice that Izuna hasn’t moved from his spot to gather firewood. “Menma-san,” he says coolly.

Kurama draws in a deep breath to speak—or grunt, at least. “Mm.”

“Stop using your kekkei genkai,” Izuna says. His voice warrants a careful tone, but his also makes it clear that he isn’t trying to intrude. “I do not care about when or how you rest. You’re a shinobi, aren’t you? You will die at this rate.”

Kurama attempts to speak. He wants to proclaim that he will be fine, and that he doesn’t need to rest right now, but it comes out as a string of half-mumbles and slurs that don’t make any sense. He huffs out some bitter chuckle, and rubs his face.

“Menma,” Izuna snaps. He noticeably drops the suffix. “Deactivate it. You need to rest.”

Kurama’s lips curl to bare his fangs, ready to snarl. It catches in his throat, and a cough jerks his entire body. Blood floods his mouth and makes his gag reflex vehemently react. Blood, phlegm and acidic saliva fall from his mouth and into the grass in front of him. Perhaps all the blood hadn’t gotten out of his lung. It’s not like he’s been trying to get rid of it all anyways. At this point it’s just naturally draining, and Kurama finds anger curling in his stomach at how weak and helpless he’s been presenting Namikaze Menma.

When he’s done retching his lungs up, Kurama wipes his mouth and chin. He leans back against the tree trunk once again, but he still doesn’t listen to Izuna. He keeps the so-called kekkei genkai flowing, like a trickling stream, and takes a shaky breath.

“Menma-san,” Izuna says, again. Kurama scoffs in annoyance, and looks up at him—

Shit. It’s the Mangekyou Sharingan.

“Sleep.”

The world goes black.

Kurama, suddenly back within the depths of the seal, screams in rage the moment he’s shut out of Naruto’s body. His tails swing and slam, and wreck havoc. Useless havoc, but it expresses his frustration for now. Breathless and pissed, he keeps Naruto clutched in his fist for only a few moments longer before letting his brat go. The reeling water takes the boy—the boy who is deep in the genjutsu because of him—and allows him to peacefully float.

Kurama does not sleep, though. Instead, he closes his eyes, and keeps his ears perked and his tails ready. Just in case Izuna tries anything, or something happens that leaves Naruto defenseless.

He messed up. He let his guard down. In the very least, Kurama can keep his jinchuuriki’s unconscious state safe.

* * *

Izuna lets a breath go.

This Menma kid is…challenging. A bit of an understatement, considering what he had to do to get him to actually sleep. He doesn’t activate his Mangekyou easily, since it’s not a very light decision to make, and Menma is too suspicious to just die to Tobirama’s inflictions. He’s never seen a kekkei genkai like…that. He can’t even fathom it as a kekkei genkai. It’s so impure…and the burning chakra that had flown freely in Menma’s coils is not still gone. It’s dormant, though, and it freely resides in the coils of his stomach. His genjutsu is keeping it quiet. It makes Izuna wary. A Mangekyou genjutsu is formidable, and can vary on intent—which is what makes it so unpredictable and scary. Izuna could’ve killed this man’s mind and body with his Mangekyou without a second thought, and Menma knew that. Recognition flashed in his eyes when he activated it.

But only the Uchiha know of the Mangekyou. So how could Namikaze Menma, this strange, blond moron, fear it, and not question it? In fact, his teleportation had been like Tobirama’s Hiraishin. Do the Senju know this hidden monopoly, or was this man a Senju himself? He isn’t dressed like one, he isn’t armed like one, and the Senju don’t have that strange kekkei genkai. In fact, as far as Izuna knows, the Senju don’t have any kekkei genkai. This Namikaze kid has to be a part of some clan if this is a kekkei genkai—or if it’s a kekkei  anything , really. Blood relation is everything for a kekkei anything. But if he isn’t…then Izuna isn’t afraid of calling him on the lie.

His appearance doesn’t make sense, and his demeanor is inappropriately rude. It’s clear he’s planning something in the interest of another party, or making mischief for himself, and Izuna refuses to find it in his heart to trust the bastard until his plan is revealed or his intentions are exposed. Killing him at this point is unreasonable and a waste of bloodshed—and he’s getting a nagging sense that it would be easier said than done.

Izuna, in part, is hesitant to kill this man because of the way his menacing eyes had studied his very physical being when he’d pinned him. Recognition and thoughtfulness had flickered across his face, and a certain glint in his eyes has lead Izuna to reasonably believe that Menma was comparing him. He doesn’t know to whom, and another part of him doesn’t want to care, but those observant eyes were…hm. He couldn’t say sappy. It is more than likely a mixture between nostalgia, realization and pain. Izuna has seen it in his brother’s eyes before.

Whoever Menma is comparing him to had hurt him on the same level that Hashirama had hurt Madara. Izuna could never understand it, but he can understand that anyone who can make others feel that way is toxic to some degree.

Izuna sighs again, and rummages around in his storage pouch for a small, specific scroll that holds emergency supplies. He unravels it enough to reveal the entire fuuin, and releases it for long enough that he can pull out a thick cloak sewn and crafted to be a source of warmth in colder weathers. He rolls and places the scroll back in his pouch. He picks the cloak up, shaking out any mustiness, and throws it over his shoulder. When he faces Menma again, he finds the young man’s entire stature almost keeled over. His knees and arms, along with the human body’s natural inability to fold while sleeping, are keeping him uncomfortably upright. Izuna hums quietly as he pulls Menma away from the tree and rests him on the more verdant grasses. He makes certain to double-check the wound on his chest with Shousen. Satisfied to discover no immediate problems, he leaps away.

The spring nights are forgiving, yes, but the nocturnal crawlers are not. The cold will dull Izuna’s awareness through the night and have an effect on his ability to travel during the day. A campfire is necessary. The next handful of hours are going to be rough.

Izuna is certain.

The dusk slips away, and the dead of the night escapes from the horizon. He discovers that fox screams and owl hoots are pleasant sounds when you’re not alone, are in safe company, and have sufficient supplies. Right now, Izuna only has his hands and his doujutsu. All of his weaponry is gone, and while his chakra reserves are coming back at a steady rate, his ninjutsu is not ideal to be used in a forest of all places.

Izuna scoffs at the sound of another nocturnal scream. He hadn’t the slightest clue as to what did make that noise, but he isn’t going to investigate. But he does stand. It’s just about time to go. He feels rested enough for the time being, and the sooner he leaves the sooner he can get home. He’s still a day away. And, _damn_ , is he missing home…

He stomps out the fire. Menma is still passed out. His face is pinched, almost like he was having a nightmare—just without the screaming, sweating and tossing. Izuna crouches down and scoops him up. A hand grabs under his knee, and another under his shoulders. Izuna pushes him up so that his head rests more inward on his chest. It’s as uncomfortable as it is disturbing to have a man’s head hanging—that is how the dead is carried. Menma is not dead.

Izuna huffs from the effort. Crickets are signing, and they become noticeably silent when he walks to the edge of the clearing to head in the opposite direction of his home; he turns around, he braces for a leap with chakra in his calves and thighs, and he jumps back into the fray.

Menma indirectly saved Madara from a life sentence of grief and sadness. He realizes that now. The least Izuna can do to pay him back right now is get him to a doctor.

* * *

Madara can’t stop his hands from shaking. From fear, from anger, from overwhelming sadness, he couldn’t tell. But he knows he’s angry, and he isn’t ready to face the facts. It still keeps him up at night, and it still makes him sick. Sick, sick, sick. He can’t eat, he most definitely can’t sleep, and all he can see is a flash of yellow, a spray of blood, and an exasperated expression. An expression like that, on Tobirama’s usual stoic face, would have been a priceless photo to keep if it weren’t for the horrible context of battle, and an unsettling disappearance.

He’s the Clan Head of the Uchiha. He doesn’t make easy assumptions. However, a spray of blood is…telling. He had seen the eyes of that menacing stranger, clad in orange, and with yellow hair. Those red eyes, the hateful chakra, that powerful, organ-rupturing punch…hn. Maybe that is why he can’t eat very well. That one doctor had said he should stay on a liquid diet until his stomach has become less sensitive. So it’s grounded herbs and vegetables for the time-being—but he can’t fucking  _ eat _ .

Uchiha Madara doesn’t just skip out on a meal. He can’t afford to, with the scarce supplies and the war raging outside of his home. But…Izuna…

“Madara,” a young woman chimes. Her lithe, pale hands brush on his shoulder. A fluffed, purple sitting pillow slaps next to him. A familiar face dips into his field of view, aloof expression slightly angled. It’s clear enough that even a stranger could tell that something bothers her. There isn’t a crease on her face; she never frowns. But right now, her eyebrows are buried into a pinch, and her calm, usually slanted lips, are stretched thin in weariness. “Your food is untouched. Again. You must eat or you won’t heal.”

Madara says nothing in response to her concern. Luckily, most of his bangs cover his face. She can’t see his glassy eyes too well, or the stressed dimple that is implanting itself in the left soft of his cheek. His fingers twiddle with one another, the lining of his gloves wearing down with the rubbing anxiety and overwhelming twists his mind is taking. Izuna is the last of his four brothers. He’s lost everyone else when they were just babies—babies and children who should not be in a war.

Hashirama stabs his katana in the ground, and drops the kunai that had been in his other hand. Immediately, his hand stretches out, and his body is holding itself high and proud.  _ Madara _ , he had said so astutely.  _ Join me; let us make our dreams come true. _

_ What of Izuna? _

_ We will find him, together. _

_ Me? Find  _ my _brother, with the brother of the man—that fucking_ bastard _ —who just tried to kill him? No! _

_ I understand. I will search for Izuna myself. With Mokuton, if I must. Meet me on the mountain in two days. Before the twilight of the moon. We must discuss this in a more appropriate setting. _

Madara had agreed to that. He had agreed to meet Hashirama in the dead of night, in a safe childhood spot, and had agreed to letting Hashirama search clues for Izuna.

“Madara.” A gentle, whispering voice breaks his steely thoughts. Dark eyes burrow deep into his one exposed eye. Her face is blurry. Her hand is on his cheek. Pale, almost too white. He feels so distant from her, even though she’s nearly nose-to-nose. His back is beginning to ache, and his chest is unbelievably tight. There’s a weight in his limbs and stomach that could be compared to boulders. His throat constricts itself when he swallows, his nose and mouth wets, his head begins to spin, and his cheeks are flushed with blood. Her face gets blurrier. He’s looking through water, he realizes, and he realizes even more so that it’s of his own making.

Uchiha Madara is crying.

The woman tilts her head and strokes her thumb gently on the peek of his cheekbone. A soft smile spreads across her face, although it’s sad, and it could be much wider. He knows it could be so, so much wider. Stoic as his promised fiancee is, like a proud Uchiha, she can express as much joy and love as the next person. Uchiha Miho doesn’t smile sadly. If she does, the reason must be heavy. Right?

Madara doesn’t recognize much of the wounds in his body. They’re just there—his body hurts, and it’s because of the wounds, but why are they there? How did he here, where ever here is? Fear and confusion blossom in the chambers of his heart, and alarm makes him tense up. The tears still flow. He attempts to speak, but the stones in his stomach and limbs muddle his words. A gentle, “Mm,” escapes his impossibly tight throat, and is promptly followed by a sob.

Miho, like the blessed kunoichi she is, frowns even more. “You’re having a breakdown,” she says. “Open your mouth, breathe in through your nose. Hold it, and let it out. Like a dragon breathing fire, Madara.”

His jaw slackens by the slightest. At first, it’s hard to breathe. It can’t get through, and it’s not because of his crying. He feels like he’s being choked. The glint of the dipping sun makes him flinch—it mimics the glint on a blade, and it’s not a nice sight to visualize when he can’t fucking breathe. Suddenly, though, and he can’t say he knows when it happened, blue is surrounding him. Ah, the faithful Susano’o. Miho had leaped as far back as she could from the ribcage of the exotic jutsu before her heels are pressed against the fusuma of his room. Her stance is ready, and defensive, but there is enough slack in it that Madara’s panicked state doesn’t feel threatened.

“Madara,” she calls again. “Breathe. Like an eastern dragon. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

He finds his bearings enough to do it. He still can’t breathe, but he can also feel a trickle of air stream through his nose, his throat; it properly inflates his lungs. His blurred vision is becoming sharp, and as he physically realizes his body is in excruciating pain, he lets go of his Mangekyou and the Susano’o ribs. Miho is at his side within seconds, there to catch him as his legs give out.

“Can you breathe, now?”

“…Yes…” he mumbles begrudgingly. He casts an exhausted side glance at her, a sad sigh leaving his lips. “…Miho…I don’t want my children out there…”

She gives him a questioning look. “In the war, you mean? Because…I…don’t see an end to it. The clan would rather die of supply shortage than be a part of a village with the Senju.”

“I’m their leader. They follow _me_. I know, deep inside, they want the fighting to stop as well,” he says quietly. His voice is thick with sadness, but there is resolve. He takes a deep, shaky breath and sits on his tail bone. He’s slouched, but Miho stays kneeled at his side. She rests her cheek on the top of his head, keeping her arms wrapped around him as a means reassurance. “I’m…I apologize, Miho. I did not mean to let myself go like that.”

She lets out a huff of air that might’ve been some sort of amusement. “I believe you owe me a bento of chichi dango,” she states. “But, please do understand…that I would be more worried if you didn’t have your moments of weakness. I find relief that you feel like you can cry in my presence.”

He feels an awkward quirk of his lips animate his tear-stained cheeks. “Ah, maybe in your presence…but not on your shoulder.”

Miho says nothing to that. She just basks in the following silence. Madara does not, though.

He lets a breath go. “I need to go somewhere,” he says. “Tonight. I need to go somewhere tonight.”

“Oh, really? Where would that be?”

“A childhood safe haven,” he explains. “I will be meeting Hashirama there for an unofficial peace treaty meeting.”

She parts. Her eyes are a bit wide. The bleak grey details of her irises are so…vibrant, this close. “Alone? Won’t he try to kill you?”

“Even when we cross swords, I can still see the hesitation in his eyes,” Madara points out. He takes the chance to stand up, brushing his shaking legs off. “I can still see the kid in him. The one who still shares a dream with me. We’re both Clan Heads. We both have the power here. This can happen.”

Miho stands, barely reaching his shoulder, with a rather disbelieving glint in her eyes. She doesn’t voice that concern, though. “I suppose I share that dream, too,” she murmurs. “I’ve lost plenty of sisters and brothers to a mindless Senju blade. I’m tired of this war paranoia—especially in the elders. They refuse to drink my tea.”

Madara feels another slight quirk in his lips. “Your tea is wonderful,” he says lightly. His gloved fingers play with her curly hair. “They’re just old, constipated goats.”

Miho snorts. “They bleat and scream when they’re scared,” she smartly coins. It draws a chuckle from her promised fiance. She rummages her hand through her baggy sleeve, though, and pulls out a scroll. “Here, take this. It’s an emergency kit. I know you’re going to approach unarmed. It’s just enough to defend and run.”

Madara knows he won’t need it. But he takes it regardlessly, the small scroll still warm from cuddling against her arm. “Thank you.”

“Be safe,” she snaps. “And be back before dawn. I will drag you home by the lobe of your ear, dead or alive, if I don’t hear a single peep from you by then.”

Madara only gives her a nod to that. He walks away from her, sliding open the fusuma to his closet armory. A mannequin holds his battered, yet sturdy, red armor. His gunbai and sickle hang from the wall, along with a small collection of swords, daggers, kunai and shuriken. Kimonos of all degrees hang over folded shirts, pants, shorts, and there is an extra pair of zori to the side. “Miho,” he calls. “If anyone asks, I’m sleeping off some medicine.”

She appears in the entrance of his closet armory, her arms crossed and her left brow raised slightly. “And if something happens?”

“I’ll leave a Kage Bushin here,” he says, grabbing an obi that is shaded on the more brown part of the neutral tan scale. “Just relay whatever happened to it. I’ll return as soon as I can, depending on the event.”

Miho glances at his choice of obi. She watches as he reaches for a basic, black kimono before she decides to interfere. Short arms reach. Madara tries to help her grab the kimono she’s attempting to grab, but her glare tells him to do otherwise.

“I believe hues of blue and yellow are contrasting,” he says, not letting any amount of nervousness bleed into the tone of his voice. “I would like to wear black, anyways.”

Miho’s tongue clicks in a tsk. “Yes, of course. But an indigo shade of blue is fashionably complementary to your choice of obi.” She tugs at the hemmed sleeve of a specific kimono. It’s the one he knows she loves seeing him in—mostly because she had crafted it for him. “Wear this, with that obi. You will look good and representable.”

Madara smiles at her indulgence. “Ah, thank you darling. I will keep that advice close to my heart.”

She just waves him off and turns away with her nose up in the air. She holds pride in her advice as much as she holds amusement in his response, and she struts away. Madara lingers on it more than he probably should have, but…

It feels nice to have someone he can smile at. Miho is just barely seventeen-years-old, the early January winters blessing her with another year, but she is a renowned Uchiha kunoichi. While she is promised to him as the next matriarch, it doesn’t stop her from being a ninja or a companion. He sorely needs a companion before he needs a ninja, right now. Especially with Izuna’s situation.

Madara doesn’t dare to spiral down that path again. He can already feel a pinching headache from the breakdown he’d experienced earlier. The jaws of the headache are eating away at the base of his skull—or that might just be his famine and lack of sleep kicking his ass. He can’t tell at this point, and he has no peace of mind to tell, so he leaves it just as it is: a pain in the neck.

He slides the fusuma shut. His eye draws to Miho’s small figure standing outside, hands on hips and eyes on the humble pond and gracious maple tree. He steps out to the middle of his room, his face tilted in a way to meet her piercing gaze. “I’m leaving,” he calls. “My clone is in my futon. He isn’t sleeping.”

“Alright,” she responds almost off-handedly. “I best hear from you before the dawn rises. Soon and often, please.”

Madara could only let himself chuckle at her before it fades into his usual preserved expression. The moment the fusuma clicks shut behind him, he feels a gentle glare begin to stab him. He turns to the source. He narrows his eyes slightly. “Fuujuki-hakase,” he says. He keeps his tone formal and punctual. She won’t answer to anything else, and rightfully so. He knows that fifteen years of study is no joke. He respects the devotion to the practice.

Her smile is curved. Too curved. “I heard commotion earlier, Madara-sama.” The words are nearly spoken in warning. He doesn’t let himself falter, though. “I sensed a burst of chakra, your chakra, and you look as if an ox has decided to make you its play thing.”

Madara tucks his arm into his kimono. “I will admit, Fuujuki-hakase, I did freak out,” he openly admits. “Miho was there to help me through it. I am taking a walk to clear my head.”

Her face tilts in a professional challenge. “I’m going to examine you tomorrow morning,” she states. “If I find any problems, I will be sure to keep you bedridden and taken care of until you make your full recovery. That punch was no joke, Madara-sama, and permanent damage—”

He raises his hand to cut her off. She silences herself almost immediately. “I appreciate your concern,” he points out, “but I have suffered worse.”

Fuujuki narrows her eyes carefully. Analytical thoughts are flitting through her hard, green eyes. Madara knows she wants to point out Izuna, but she wisely holds her tongue. “I understand. I apologize for any over-stepping I did, Madara-sama. Times are rough. I do not wish to coddle more panic-struck cousins because our leader has broken down in the middle of war. Be as it is, whatever happens to you happens to all of us.”

Madara turns his face away. Always so indulgent, despite her pride and cold demeanor. And only to him, too. He hates it just as much as he appreciates it. “Thank you for your words. Have a good night.”

She dutifully bows her head, and walks away the moment he turns his back to her. He almost glares at the wooden floor boards swiftly passing under his nose as his mind wanders again. Far too indulgent. How could anyone be so kind in war?

Madara pulls out Miho’s small scroll. Another gift, out of indulgence. His fingers make it toddle, thoughtful and reminiscent with each twirl and spin.

Hashirama is kind, and he understands.

They will get this treaty done. Madara will protect any future generation that he can. He refuses to kill anymore child soldiers.

_No more_ , his brothers whisper.  _No more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuujuki: “beautiful wind”  
> “-hakase” is a suffix meaning “Dr”.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes!! an update ^.^ woohoo
> 
> i’ve been busy recently, i’m moving and getting into the college rhythm so it’s been chaotic. not to mention wild fires in my town :<
> 
> anyways, this chapter is a bit shorter than the previous 2. i personally find it to be similar to an interlude but i always feel that way about writing small details.
> 
> enjoy :) wc: 4.9k

** metanoia **

— _ the journey of changing one’s mind, heart, self or way of life. _

* * *

Spring’s evening is forgiving. It doesn’t bite Madara with the threatening cold. The humidity of the day is still blanketing the surrounding forest. Breezes and leaves carried by the wind swirl at his feet as he leaps over the wall, avoiding any prying and questioning eyes. Most of the clan are aware of his wounds—but not Izuna’s disappearance—and would raise alarms for Fuujuki to pester him about. This isn’t something he wants everyone, or even the selective few beyond Miho, to know about.

The way Madara takes is a nostalgic route. He recognizes the trees and roots he would pass by in his younger days. The eco system hasn’t really changed—there’s still the same types of birds chirping, and the same critters scuttling into their homes for the night. He knows that if he takes a sharp turn from where he currently is, he’ll be heading out to the river where he and Hashirama first met all those years ago. He also knows that he hates that river just enough to avoid thinking of it.

It’s peaceful. Nice, quiet, and untouched by war. This environment is much unlike what he is, quite frankly, used to, and he can’t say that he’s discomforted by it any further. The moon is about to rise well above the horizon when Madara arrives to where he needs to be. The mountain. The one where he and Hashirama had hung out at all those years ago. They’re going to be here, together, again. He is…excited, to say the least. His nerves are very real, too, but he isn’t afraid of them. He isn’t afraid of this opportunity. He wants this peace and quiet for his family, his clan, his children and his children’s children.

The arrival is quiet, dark and almost anti-climatic. Hashirama was in no visible area, but he could feel the presence of his long-standing friend, enemy and clashed. It was very clear to him that his friend was being careful, meticulous in his movements, and likely vague towards his much disliked little brother. Madara hates him with a slight passion—more so now than ever, simply because of what’s happened to Izuna…

Whatever that Menma is enduring, Izuna would have had to suffer. Madara refuses to accept that thought. War is ugly. It needs good fortune…Madara wants the good fortune. Perhaps this was the good fortune. He can project an equally good and bad outcome, as well as a neutral one.

The end of this meeting is about as difficult to predict as it was for his father to understand just how preventable the death of his three sons could have been if he just negotiated. Of course, with the amount of feelings going through each clan heart, it’s easy enough to say that it’s nearly impossible to do now.

“Madara.”

He nearly jumps and turns out of instinct, but it comes evident that Hashirama is behind him. When he turns, his public enemy is wearing a generous kimono. Plain, unassuming, and easy to notice that he doesn’t even have a defensive scroll to protect himself just in case. At this point, he only has his Jutsu. This, Madara, decides, is fine. He almost did the same; he has a kunai hidden in the inner of his thigh. Maybe he should’ve left it, but there’s an ongoing war still. Who is to say that he’ll get out of this alive, anyways? Miho certainly thought he wouldn’t. Fair enough, he can suppose.

He makes no movement to show that he’s elated or afraid. “Hashirama,” he greets. “I see you’ve made it alone.”

Hashirama grins. “You, too,” he points out. He sounds relieved. “I was worried! I wouldn’t have been surprised if you brought an assassination party! Ha!”

That does make Madara smile. “I am surprised, too. How did you manage to shake off your brother, anyway?”

“He fell asleep. I had the chance to slip away from everyone. They trust me enough to leave mysteriously in the middle of the night.”

Madara snorts. He wishes he could say the same, but lords forbid Miho gives him leniency. “That’s lovely. Shall we get started?”

“Oh, yes! Of course. I would like to give you updates on Izuna, though. From my efforts, of course. Last I checked, he was in one of my earlier forests. There was some activity in a specific outlier of an area. I had a hard time reading them, but I sensed a…sinister chakra there with him. The more sinister one felt very weak. Izuna’s signature was busty enough with life that I couldn’t find a flutter in my heart to make me sick with fear.”

Madara becomes solemn. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Madara. Anything to ease your mind. I understand the loss of brothers just as much as you do…”

“Yes, yes, of course. But, before we begin negotiations, there’s something I would like to point out about Izuna’s kidnapper—“

Madara shakes his head and cuts off Hashirama. “Please, tell me later. I just want to craft this treaty.”

His fellow clan leader falls silent. There’s a gentle glint in his eyes that reflects the dark sky, but it doesn’t change Madara’s standpoint. The subject of Izuna is too much right now, and he doesn’t want to fail this grand opportunity. Instead of questioning, Hashirama only nods in understanding. “Alright. Let’s get started.”

* * *

The moment his feet hit solid ground, and stay on solid ground, he falls to his knees. His hands are trembling, and he’s breathless. His head is heavy, his eye lids droop with exhaustion, but by any deity out there…by any god who could dare to listen to a mere human begging…he felt thankful for their generosity. He took the back door. This is the way where no guard would see him easily, and not raise any alarms, and for good reason. Menma’s blood is sought by Madara for questioning.  Keep a sharp eye out for the man with yellow hair , Madara had ordered.  Use force.

Izuna is making certain it doesn’t happen violently, especially when he has a say in it. The guards will be violent. He knows it.

So here he is, looming on one side of the wall that leads directly into the backyard garden built for the main family. The weight of the cloak and Menma got unbearably heavy hours ago, and the journey took almost too much—but he made it. Menma can properly receive medical attention, and Izuna can sleep.

One last leap. That’s all he needs. One last leap, and he can  _ sleep _ .

His knees ache as he crouches down. His thighs burn horribly, and his core strength nearly falters to the point of collapse. He makes it clear to his body, though, that he isn’t going to give up so easily. He charges chakra one last time through his legs, and takes a large enough of a jump to land next to the humble pond a few ten feet in the garden. By all means, it’s no easy landing. He stumbles forward and barely catches Menma from the rough fall, setting the blond stranger down gracelessly on the ground as soon as he’s certain no further damage will be done. Izuna is quick to keel over and roll onto his side, panting and shaking with all the effort he had exerted in his journey. Dirt and grass stick to his cheek, sweat making it damp, but he can’t care. He’s home.

“Izuna!”

Happiness flutters in his heart. He struggles to push himself up, but he can’t get himself up beyond his elbow. “Nii-sama,” he rasps. A smile so big that it closes his eyes spreads across his face. “Ah, I don’t think I’ve missed home more than I ever have! Thank goodness you’re here…we need Fuujuki-hakase here…”

Madara drops to his side, grabbing Izuna’s arm and draping it over his shoulders. He’s practically dragging his brother to his room, fumbling over the fusuma. “Miho! Get Fuujuki!”

She looks up from her reading material, alarm glinting briefly in her grey eyes before she assesses the situation. With a dutiful nod, she rushes out of the room. Izuna reaches out and tugs at Madara’s shirt. “Hey, nii-sama,” he mumbles. “I just need to lay down…Fuujuki-hakase needs to treat M…Menma-san…”

Madara turns to questioning face his brother. “Menma?”

Izuna nods slowly as he’s placed on the tatami mats of the room. Madara keeps his hands gripped onto his brother’s arms to keep him upright. “He…saved me…” he says, breathlessly, “from Tobirama’s strike. He took the hit for me, and he got me away from the battle…”

Madara goes silent.

Izuna tugs at the hem of his sleeve. “Please,” he slurs. “I have him under my genjutsu. He won’t wake up. Put Fuujuki on him first. Please, onii-sama.”

Madara is still silent. When Izuna looks up at him, he can see wide eyes and a bulging Adam’s Apple. Madara is feeling some form of weariness, some form of anxiety, and Izuna has no power to help. He pulls his tattered gloves off, and cups the clammy cheek of his older brother. It seems to draw Madara back to reality, and when the older of the two blinks, there is movement once again. “How long has it been since you started your travels?”

“Oh, lords—we were almost three days away!” Izuna laughs, and winces at the force it pulls from his lungs and stomach. He coughs slightly, which shoves Madara away from any serenity he might’ve found, and lets out a sigh. “We ran for a day straight through Senju territory. Or at least I believed it was Senju territory. The forest had Mokuton trees in it, so…I just assumed…and the second evening of our travels, I had to use my Mangekyou to cast a genjutsu on him. He refused to sleep…”

Madara scoffs. “So he’s a stubborn cryptic,” he concludes. “Is he an enemy, Izuna? I need to know before I can let Fuujuki-hakase do anything.”

He shakes his head and feels his shoulders slump. “He needs us for shelter, medicine, supplies…” he explains. “He won’t try anything. Not to mention, he did…save me. Hn, you should’ve seen how much of a mess he looked a few days ago, nii-sama…”

Madara reaches as far as he can for Miho’s sitting pillow. He hands it over to Izuna, and lets his otouto use it. But before the younger Uchiha is laid down, Madara pulls his head into a lingering hug. “I’m glad you’re safe and well, otouto,” he whispers. “I will do as you wish. Fuujuki will tend to you as soon as she can, if not sooner.”

Izuna only lets a sigh go, nodding, and rests his head down on Miho’s pillow. His breathing evens out within moments, and Madara knows that his brother sleeps. His shoulders slacken, and he closes his eyes. An eerie mist, Katon no Jutsu, a flicker of Tobirama, a yellow flash, a spurt of blood, no more Izuna. It all plays out in so much detail, but now relief follows his vision. The flash of yellow saved Izuna. But… _why_?

Madara turns and rushes out to his humble pond. The blond stranger— _Menma_ , he recalls—is unmoving from his spot, his chest rising and falling beneath Izuna’s weather cloak. His face is pinched, like he’s having a nightmare…except he isn’t thrashing, twitching, sweating, mumbling. It could very well be the genjutsu, though. As pleasant as Izuna could’ve tried to make it, long-term exposure can have some negative effects. Madara sighs. He reaches out and grabs the stranger by his armpits, and drags him across the rest of the yard. He doesn’t bring him inside, though. He sets the blond down, flat on the ground, and kneels by his side.

The cloak is peeled off to reveal orange, tattered pants, black zori, and a black pull-over jacket—all perfect for a trained shinobi. His clothing alone implied an alliance, or resources in the very least. Yet here he is,  Menma-san , dying and crying for supply and shelter. And to the Uchiha, of all people. The ones who are struggling more than ever right now. The steady supply of food, water and armor is faltering. Whether or not the Senju Clan is struggling right now is completely unknown…or it was, at least, until last night. Hashirama shamelessly confirmed a lack in integral routes for supplies, and Madara admitted to suffering the same problem. The solutions would be to either use child soldiers to guard the routes…or to unite peacefully, and create a village.

 _ This is good, _ Hashirama had said.  _ This is very good, actually—not the lack of supplies, of course! Haha…I-I was talking about the fact that we just shared essential clan struggles. All of that, on top of you, Uchiha Madara-sama, arriving to meet little ol’ Hashirama without a single piece of armor and no visible weapons to speak of… _

Madara had felt a faint blush accompany his embarrassment.  _ I know you want this. I want this, too. _

_ Yay! _ That clapping had been almost infuriating. But it made Madara smile. It’s still making Madara smile.

“Madara-sama!” Fuujuki says. She’s running into the room. “I’m here. What do you need me to do?”

He stands and turns to face her, Izuna’s cloak in hand. He remains calm despite her frazzled state. “Treat this man to the best of your abilities. Miho will help you. I shall take Izuna to the infirmary for proper medical attention and bedrest,” he states.

Fuujuki dips her head, and motions for Miho to join her side. She’s at Menma’s shoulders almost right away. There is blood, dried, and a cut in the pull-over—through-and-through. Hn. Tobirama’s mark of a deadly jutsu. Hiraishin. Madara glares at the cloth as he backs away from the two women.

Those deep, deadly cuts could’ve been on Izuna. Madara turns his face back to said brother. Perhaps he did owe something more to Menma for that. But the true question lays with how Menma managed to land so accurately by Izuna in the midst of an obscured, typical clan battle. The only answer he could honestly think of with his own speculation is that this Menma knows and has enough experience with a teleportation jutsu that needs physical marks to be present. The only teleportation jutsu Madara has intelligence of is Hiraishin.

So, with that, how might Menma know of Hiraishin in the first place? That eerily ironic connection to Tobirama— _that fucking bastard_ —is what bothers him most, and if he finds something in this stranger that he doesn’t like…then he will give himself the right to kill him. Regardless of Izuna’s arguments, knowledge of Hiraishin is indirect Senju affiliation. The unofficial peace talk had been between two clan heads—elders and others in partial power need to be included, now, for the long-lasting, official process. If his political connections found out Menma, he would have to do something about him.

With a wistful breath, he scoops up Izuna and carries him off to the infirmary for more proper care. Madara himself desperately needs it. A fourth sleepless night is creeping up on him, though, and he’s certain he won’t be getting a wink of rest with his final brother’s return.

* * *

An emergency meeting is set up in the dead of the night. Madara’s eld council, select Uchiha nobles and political powers must attend. Izuna swears it’s his fault. Madara astutely swears back that it’s not his fault. He keeps Izuna in the infirmary. The midday sun is filtering through the screen window. The spring air is warm, slightly humid, and comfortably calm. Cicadas are singing, and the sky is naked.

“Madara-sama,” a nurse says, “would you like some tea?”

Knowing tea would relax him too much, he rejects it. But he does take the offer of a small lunch. Sage and deities, he’s hungry. He hadn’t bothered with breakfast—he came back in the easy hours of the early morning, and Miho had not been very happy at the timing of his arrival. She’s a grumpy child when she doesn’t sleep. Madara’s moods become too erratic…and now that Izuna is resting, he can feel the sleepless nights catching up to him. He doesn’t let them trap his heavy, bruising eyes though. He keeps himself awake with the thought of that Menma going unattended. It’s the last disaster he needs getting out of hand right now—and it’s one he doesn’t want to wake up to.

Rice balls and soba are handed over to him moments later. The portion size is smaller than usual—but, shit, he can’t do anything about that. The kitchen staff are under orders to keep the proportions small in order to preserve the dry stockpile of conservable foods. Madara made certain that the children get more decently sized meals, though.

“Ah, you’re finally eating something solid.”

He turns his head to the entrance of the room. Miho is standing there, her grey eyes sparkling with happiness. It completely contrasts the rest of her flat expression. It makes him vaguely wonder how she does that, but it’s a passing thought he also knows won’t be answered. Madara finishes his bite of rice and allows a slight smile. “It’s light food,” he points out.

“But you haven’t eaten or slept since Izuna disappeared,” she counters. She steps up to the young Uchiha who softly snores. “Now all you need to do is sleep.”

He chuckles bitterly. “Yeah. I wish I could, but the elders and commanders want a meeting…”

“Will you tell them about Menma?”

“Only of his person and deed, if they even ask. His abilities can be kept quiet.” He bites the rice ball again. It’s a small bite—he’s still injured, and he’s been starved. His bites need to be small and paced.

Miho raises an eyebrow. “And what of your meeting in the mountains?”

Another smile creeps up on his face, but it disappears just as fast as it appears. “I will go through with the proposal,” he says. “Hashirama and I signed the first half of the proposal—no child will be put on the battle field until their thirteenth birthday. That’s clan law for the both of us, now, whether the others like it or not. As of now, I need to persuade them to agree to most of it.”

“What are the contents of the proposal?” she inquires. “Surely it has its tricks. The Senju are slick bastards.”

Miho’s choice of words make him grimace at the reminder that he will need to work twice as hard to fight for the approval of the treaty. He knows how much she hates the Senju. Like himself, she has lost her younger brothers to their blind swords. It’s all the more reason to go through with this, though. He is hellbent on keeping his own children out of this war…if it ever comes to that. “We’re slick bastards, too,” he murmurs. He feels a wash of sadness overwhelm him, though. “My youngest brother…the baby of the family…was pushed out onto the battlefield the day after his fifth birthday.”

Miho’s eyes became glassy.

“And…Hashirama’s youngest brother had been tortured to death…” Madara feels heavy with grief. “If I were to ever father a child, Miho—“

She raises her hand. It cuts him off respectfully and swiftly. “You don’t need to explain yourself. I understand,” she states. “It will take a very long time for me to find forgiveness, and longer for others. Some people in both clans may never forgive one another for anything. I fully expect a rough upbringing.”

“Hn.” He bites the rice ball again. “I have lost too many of my clan to their hands to ever fully forgive them, but…this effort is nice. It’s a relief to know that the enemy is just as tired as I am.”

Miho doesn’t say anything to that, but going by her expression Madara believes he can safely say that she’s thinking long and hard thoughts about the situation. He decides to only eat and let the silence fill the room.

The passing hour is uneventful, boring and doesn’t warrant his attention. Besides eating and drinking some water, of course, but that just doesn’t last. When the one hour finally melts into a second hour, Izuna wakes up from a period of rest he desperately needed. Miho isn’t there anymore—she had decided that waiting in the infirmary can’t be all her day is, but Madara had stayed for this reason.

“Madara-nii,” is the first thing Izuna says.

He lets out a beaming smile that quickly melts down to a quirk of his lips. “Izuna,” he replies. “How do you feel?”

Izuna smacks his mouth, signaling dryness from long hours of deep sleep. “I am…tired,” he mumbles. As he sits himself up, he grunts from the sore muscles and aching bones. “And I ache…quite a lot.”

“Fuujuki said that you need a few days of bedrest, food, and water. Light activity only, and a lot of rest,” Madara states. “I intend on keeping you in the compound for the coming week.”

“Hmm…” he breathes out. He pushes the blanket off his legs, and lets out a loud sigh if relief. “What of Menma?”

Madara stares blankly, processing that he has yet to check on the surprise guest. He hasn’t checked in with the guards since the evening of his departure for the top secret peace treaty. “Uhm—well,” he clears his throat briefly, “last I checked, he was still under your genjutsu. His wound is attended to. Fuujuki said that he’ll live to be thanked.”

Izuna nods solemnly. “I see.”

“What’s with the gloom? Is there something the matter?”

Silence makes first contact with the question. Izuna is obviously contemplating his response. “I just worry,” he finally says. “It will become an exhausting situation if word ever gets out. And I strongly believe word will go around eventually.”

“If Menma stays for long, then I fear a political mess,” Madara agrees. “He is a very strange puzzle piece. The elders and members will be aggressive if our war doesn’t end soon.”

“It’s understandable, of course…” Izuna frowns a little as he thinks. “We’ll just kick him out if it becomes too problematic.”

Madara nods. “I plan on it. Just because he saved you from the Senju doesn’t mean I prioritize his comfort over my family’s stability.”

“He could be valuable, though. He uses Hiraishin.”

Madara sips at his cold tea. “Yes…if he isn’t a Senju, then his story is all the more confusing to be completely honest. Word of another Hiraishin user would have reached us by now, unless he learned it recently. If Tobirama’s jutsu is out there then it’s a matter of intel. We don’t have any manpower to spare for this situation. Not with the war and supply shortage going on as it is.”

Izuna leans forward, putting a hand on his brother’s knee as a means of comfort. “Calm down, Madara-nii. You need to focus on the current moment, not the future moments. Baby steps.”

Madara doesn’t say anything. He can only imagine, but the old snakes of the Uchiha are patiently waiting for the meeting. Izuna needs a story, and it needs to be consistent. But no apparent lies. The elders would denounce his title in a heart beat if they discovered lies and an outsider being sheltered by the  royal branch of all branches. This subject isn’t a light one, and despite Madara’s determination to keep the peace, it will play a factor into the elder’s considerations and eternal opinions of him.

Izuna moves, and it fishes Madara from his abyssal thought process. Nothing is said, though. The conversation ends, another one doesn’t start; Madara returns to sipping his cold tea, and Izuna starts out his window with droopy eyes. Things will have to work out for them to be able to rest.

* * *

Asa, Fusa, Hatsu, Hibiki and Osamu Uchiha are standing next to their mats, their beady dark eyes—with a pair of pale blue eyes to top the group off—stab Madara as he enters. Izuna and Kagami modestly enter behind him, and Miho tails them in a conservative kimono.

The bruises under Madara’s eyes are somewhat concealed thanks to Miho’s makeup kit. They’re very present still, but not as much as before.

When everyone stands where they’re meant to sit, they dip into respectful bows and sink to seat themselves. At first, there is silence. Madara is meant to speak, but his eyes are glazed over and his shoulders are slumping. Miho reaches for his knee, but she doesn’t touch him. He zaps himself with energy, and opens the meeting.

“I‘ll get straight to the point,” Madara states confidently. “A temporary peace treaty with the Senju has been signed. A more permanent one will come from this, and no one leaves until the other terms are decided.”

An uproar begins. The elders are glaring daggers, either sneering in silence or speaking out against his proposal.

Asa and Fusa, twin sisters, are protesting the loudest. Eventually, Fusa’s voice becomes overpowering. The others dwindle in her volume.

“You‘re _delusional_ , Madara!” she yells when the silence begins to settle. “You signed a treaty with the fucking  _ Senju _ ? Our millenniums-long enemy? They’ve killed our children, slaughtered our parents, and you expect us to lay down and accept this? Absolutely not! Asa and I will never be at peace with those stupid bastards!”

“Show some respect!” Kagami snaps. Fusa’s attentions magnetizes to the young man. Her mouth is open, but he continues to berate. “He is taking a revolutionary step forward! He forgave the Senju for killing his _brothers_ , his mother, his father, his cousins for _our_ children! For our young men and women! Listen to what he has to say, Fusa-sama!”

Common sense kicks in. The silence remains. The elders begrudgingly listen.

“Thank you, Kagami,” Madara says gratefully. “You are right to be angry…Fusa. Asa. You all do. I am still angry, but I am…exhausted. This war needs to end. It’s absolutely pointless. Our clan is dying for nothing but pride. I signed a temporary treaty with a heavy heart, knowing fully well that my peers and elders simply would not agree. I did it for my brothers. They died on battlefields that could’ve been farm lands.”

Crickets. Shifting eyes. Furrowed brow bones. Silent gazes. Grazing eyes. Patience. Interest— _curiosity_. What will happen in the next three seconds?

A breath is taken for a new statement.

“…You are right,” Hibiki speaks up. He hadn’t said a single thing until this very moment. Madara gives him a slight look of surprise. “I despise the Senju with every fiber of my being. I pride myself in the amount I’ve killed, and I will not back away from a chance to break one of their necks. They killed my wife over twenty years ago, and watching my clan continuously get cut down merely deepens my grief. The children we send to battle should be aiming for education and prosperity, not throats and death. I will agree to any terms that does not hinder our supply of food, water, and safety. That is my final word.”

“Hibiki…” Fusa grounds her teeth. “You are too forgiving. This is _blasphemy_! He didn’t even discuss the _temp_ treaty with us! What makes you believe he won’t slide another term or two under the table if it’s finalized?”

Asa places a hand on her sister’s tense shoulder. “Please, nee-san,” she whispers. “He only wants what’s best for our clan’s future.”

Fusa sneers again. But she doesn’t protest, and she breaks eye contact with Hibiki.

“I refuse to agree to any terms,” Hatsu announces. “My son wasn’t just killed, he was disrespected. He was absolutely mutilated, and by Senju! I refuse to even think of the notion.”

“More sons will be mutilated if the war continues,” Asa argues. Her brow is angrily pinched. His words cut her deeply enough to disturb a quiet and restless moral compass. “You can’t be inconsiderate of other Uchiha families, you stupid old man!”

“Silence, woman!” he shouts. Hostility grinds his feeble teeth. “You will never—“

“ _Hatsu_ ,” Madara barks. “Keep your tongue tied. We all share your anger, and a part of me agrees. But if you can’t conform and adapt to meet the needs for new times, I will remove you from my counsel. I did not choose a grief-stricken Hatsu for his anger, but rather his strategy and wisdom. Please keep a level head, and don’t bite anyone’s head off.”

Hatsu clamps his jaw shut. He takes a breath, and faces Asa. “I apologize. Your argument is valid, Asa-dono. But I must inquire how integrity and accountability will be incorporated with the permanent treaty.”

Madara could feel satisfaction rising in his stomach like the steam of cooking. Lords, he’s wanted to make Hatsu shut up for  _years_ . “I understand your worries. I have that sorted out.” Eyebrows subtly raise, mouths clench, noses twitch. All Madara can see is restlessness, discomfort, and uncertainty. He holds a lot of power here. “We will live in a village. Together, as two separate clans.”

This time, the uproar was deafening.

It’s always been very obvious that a conclusion wasn’t going to be met soon, but Madara has hopes. The possibility of his childhood dream coming true is more real now than ever before. He hopes for the best in this new concept of a village—the absolute best. If he could close his eyes without falling asleep, he would pray for any sort of good fortune to bless his next steps forward in life. He wouldn’t turn it down for any piece of his world, and he could only hope that the sacrifice isn’t too much for the reward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asa: “shallows of a river”  
> Fusa: “tassels” / connotation of “completeness”  
> Hatsu: “first” / “beginning”  
> Hibiki: “echo”  
> Osamu: “disciplined”


End file.
